


Evenings of Light

by asemic



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Corporal Punishment, F/M, Gen, M/M, Major Illness, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 03:39:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15428229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asemic/pseuds/asemic
Summary: Four ways John Irving dies and one way he lives.





	Evenings of Light

*** * * * ***

His body falls apart, he still so young and once virile; a life not enjoyed, so trivial his time. He smells the odor of rot. His. 

They saw the dove and cheered, a vulture now. John hears commotion then the rhythmic grind of wood scraping stones. His gums flap bloody, eyes loll in his head, and he finds the strength to make the sign of the cross. He will fly to Heaven, his body so light. 

John Irving soars above the ships and greets his men. 

The dove blesses their journey.

*** * * * ***

The physician calls for his family, their many bodies packing his room. His eyes blind, clouded with age, but he senses their presence.

His wife clutches his hand, her fingers knobby with bone, thinning through the years, growing spotted, but always lovely. His beloved presses his palm to her lips, her tears flowing down his wrist. He wishes he held the strength to tell her not to cry, to turn to their legacy. 

Six children and a multitude of grandchildren, their skin soft, voices high and joyous. If he tilts his head he sees them all, his present and future, his family. They toddle to him, reaching and he swoops them through the air, his children, their chubby arms wrapping tight. 

Oh, his wife! She dances on their wedding day, her eyes bright, hands graceful, and the music stirs his heart. She guides him home, his wife, his light, his light.

*** * * * ***

Have you ever felt the cat?

For a man like him they soak the flails in vinegar. Rough hands strip him, no care for his uniform, sullied. Buttons scatter to the deck; the anchors glimmer in the light, his past and future in tatters. 

They tie him to the rigging with limbs spread. A parody of how they found John with his petty officer, begging, begging to be taken harder. He begged for the young man to not bear any sentence only to watch the lad take the punishment first. His lover yelled with every strike received, the body meant to be worshiped rendered torn and bloody. He fell slack against his bonds, the pain too great, this round of violence declared over until he could stand again. 

The harbor is busy with boats, all witnesses. Their eyes are indiscernible, but he suffers them as readily as the judgment he will receive. 

Will he scream? 

Please, God, provide strength.

He feels the first blow before he hears the flail crack and his God abandons him.

*** * * * ***

It burns.

His breath struggles to flow into his lungs, shallow, drawing and not expelling, but leaking, leaking like his blood into and from his wounds. Wounds, wounds, how

His, his chest is burning and Hickey, this man he tried to save

watching him

It burns the press of his hand to his mouth, so light, he a child being silenced

hush John time to sleep son sleep angel

the sun the light

he cannot ask why

hear the bell

hear it clang

watch is over

*** * * * ***

Time pauses.

Somewhere the ice cracks. In the distance it sounds like an explosion when it gives way, splintering, spidering like prayers reaching out from a source until it cradles the stranded and floats them free. 

God listens and the Arctic provides. They listen to Their children and release them to the future: 

the Naturalist, content to haul his creatures in for study, cataloguing his quarry; 

the Leader, restored to his glory, leather unchewed, but resentments never swallowed; 

the Commander, his tales heard, a legend made armor to shield his true self; 

the Murderer, a dreamer who found a beach, his footprints bloody yet washed in the waves; 

the Broken and the Loyal, he releasing her hand and followed by a protective shadow pouring alcohol; 

the Lovers, their poetry written along skin and between the leaves of shared volumes; 

the Believer, knees prayer-worn, divine providence his coat, light. His future, the life not yet lived and death belong to him. 

John Irving lives.


End file.
